Punchies
by cirquets
Summary: Written for the  loosely-defined  prompt: "Mordecai and Rigby play punchies to decide who tops and who bottoms." This is ... kind of that story?


"No, dude," Mordecai's voice comes calling faintly from on top of the bed Rigby curls into himself on the floor. "We're not playing punchies to - no. Besides," he adds weakly, "we both know that I'd win."

"Aw, come on, Mordecai," Rigby crows. His leer is practically audible. "How else are we gonna settle this? You wanna call in a mediator? You wanna call in Benson?"

"No!" Mordecai cries before sighing heavily. "Look, Rigby, maybe we should just forget about it. I mean, I have Margaret and you have ... " he trails off awkwardly, sucking in a sharp breath. "Well, I have Margaret."

" 'Margaret, Margaret, Margaret,' " Rigby sneers. He perhaps sounds a little more wounded than he would like. "Come on, Mordecai, what's more important to you? Lady pecs or - " he jumps on top of the bed then, crawling unsubtly onto Mordecai's chest; Mordecai makes a face at him " - your best friend?"

"Lady pecs," Mordecai drawls with a smirk.

"Fine, then," Rigby says, climbing back off of Mordecai's chest and scurrying into the farthest corner of the bed. He shoots a wary look at Mordecai. "It's obvious where your priorities lie."

"Aw, come on," Mordecai groans when he reaches out to touch Rigby's tail and it flickers violently away. "Fine. We'll play punchies. But if I win, no complaining, alright?"

"Alright," Rigby agrees before a sly smile creeps onto his face. "I promise to treat you like a natural woman." He yelps when Mordecai's wing comes down hard near his ear and clips it. "What in the 'h' was that for, dude?" he says, rubbing his ear - that hurt, okay, he's totally man enough to admit that - and cringing when Benson knocks at the door.

"Keep it down in there!" he says through the door. "I don't pay you to make a ruckus."

"You barely pay us at all," Mordecai snipes under his breath; Rigby stifles a laugh and calls, "Sorry!" They wait until they're sure that Benson is gone before re-situating themselves.

"If we're gonna do this," Mordecai says gravely, "then we're gonna do it right."

For all of the bickering that occurs prior to the outcome, the game itself is largely uneventful. Rigby realizes dimly that he could use the Death Punch of Death to his advantage, but if he's going to do this - if they, rather, are going to do this; Mordecai may have a wider range of experiences under his belt, but it's not like Rigby is a child, he understands the mechanics - then he's going to do it with some semblance of honor.

He loses, unsurprisingly, but it isn't as if Mordecai is enthused over the outcome either, even if it is in his favor. "Heh," he laughs quietly, "I won. Awesome." His heart isn't into it; Rigby's heart is somewhere in his throat.

"Yeah," he repeats. "Awesome." They sit and very studiously look over each other's shoulders, refusing to make eye contact, before Mordecai clears his throat. "Maybe this really isn't the best idea, dude," he says, and Rigby shakes his head. "No, no," he says, "we played the game. I lost, you won. Now we have to follow through on it."

Mordecai chuckles nervously and scratches at the back of his neck. "I don't know the first thing about ... this," he says, gesturing helplessly. "I mean, where in the 'h' am I going to, you know ... ?"

"I did research!" Rigby chirps a bit too brightly, too quickly. "It is biologically possible for a raccoon and a blue jay to couple," he adds in the droll, dry voice of a professor. Mordecai snorts and rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, okay, I believe you, Professor Rigby."

"Good," Rigby says, narrowing his eyes. "I didn't want to have to use the charts that I printed out."

"There are charts?" Mordecai asks flatly; he holds up a wing when Rigby opens his mouth to speak. "Spare me the details."

"Well, we're gonna need the details anyway," Rigby says. "Have you forgotten the task at hand?"

"Unfortunately, no," Mordecai deadpans, closing his eyes shut and rubbing his temples with a slow, methodic rhythm . Rigby reaches his hand out unconsciously to reclaim his attention, touching his knee, and Mordecai, startled, jerks back as if he had been burned.

"Don't wimp out on me now," Rigby warns.

Mordecai puffs out his chest after a considerable pause. He sounds much more resolved when he says, "Alright, let's do it. 'F' the charts. You know what to do, right?"

"Yeah, yeah," Rigby agrees hastily. "I know what to do." He hops off of the bed, skittering on all fours into the closet, and rummages around before producing a small bottle of Pop's hand cream. Mordecai pales noticeably, but when he raises an objection, it has nothing to do with what they're going to be doing in the very near future. "Rigby, that's Pop's!" he cries. "He's gonna be so pissed if he finds out that you stole it. He gets that stuff imported from - from - "

" - Lollyland," Rigby supplies. "Anyway, I don't think that it's physically possible to piss Pops off."

"Maybe we should use something else," Mordecai suggests hesitantly.

"Maybe you should stop stalling," Rigby shoots back, crawling back onto the bed and laying on his side, fumbling with the bottle. "The web site told me that I could do this all by myself," he says conversationally, finally popping open the bottle. "But I tried in the shower and it's hard to get in there at a good angle."

"Get in where?" Mordecai asks, cocking his head, before Rigby squirts a dollop of cream into his palm.

Rigby makes sure that his paw is liberally coated in Pop's hand cream - the smell of butterscotch is rich and heady in the cramped, humid air of their bedroom, and Rigby's stomach lurches once or twice because of it - before reaching back and sliding one finger up to the hilt. He shifts uncomfortably, making a small sound of discomfort, and peers up at Mordecai, who stares back, more pallid than before.

"This would be a lot easier if someone else could do it for me," he says pointedly, and Mordecai, flustered, splutters out, "No, no, you're doing great."

"Lay-zee," he whistles lowly, sliding his finger out. Mordecai winces at the squelching sound that the motion produces. "Come on, dude, please? It's the least that you could do."  
"Wings, dude," Mordecai says, flapping them in illustration. "You don't want to be picking feathers out of your butt for a week, do you?"

"You're not very romantic, you know that?" Rigby quips, fingers still hovering over the pucker of his asshole. "You sure know how to make me feel special, man."

"Should I have brought you flowers?" Mordecai says. A smile flickers across his face for a moment before it fades, just as quickly. "Come on, Rigby, we're just doing this for ... wait, why are we doing this again?"

"Duh, Mordecai," Rigby sighs, exasperated. "We were bored, remember? Why do we do anything else?"

"I don't know about you, but I do things for fun." He pulls another face. "I guess you just need to get some new hobbies, buddy, because I don't think this is gonna be an everyday activity, you know?"

Rigby swallows tightly and shoots Mordecai a grin. "Yeah, of course not," he agrees easily. "Now, if you're not gonna get off your lazy bum and help me, then at least get me off another way."

"Was that supposed to be innuendo?" Mordecai scoffs, cocking an eyebrow.

"Aw, man, you saw right through me!" Rigby cracks. He wipes his paw off on the bedsheets - "Not on the bed!" Mordecai cries, looking on in horror. "We sleep in this bed, for god's sake!" - and rearranges his form so that he's sitting upright, one of his hind legs angled, keeping his legs spread. His cock is mostly soft, nestled in between his legs, but it twitches in interest when he strokes it once, drawing Mordecai's attention to it. "I think that it's only common courtesy to keep me entertained while you go at it," he mentions offhandedly.

" 'Go at it'?" Mordecai repeats. "Jeez, and you're the one complaining about this not being romantic enough."

"Point taken," Rigby muses. "Anyway, dude, get over here and touch it." He leers once more. "It won't bite."

"Yeah, but I might bite it off if you don't shut up and give me a second of prep, man," Mordecai snaps at him before reaching out his wing and hesitantly running it over Rigby's prick. The sensation is - well, it's less firm than Rigby is like, than he's used to; it almost tickles, really, but it doesn't stop Rigby's body from acting of its own according. He throws his head back, gritting out a small noise, and Mordecai once again raises an amused eyebrow in his general direction. "Really?" he asks dryly. "If I had known that you'd be this responsive, then I would have used it against you."

"Not cool, man," Rigby gripes. Mordecai doesn't respond; he runs his wing over Rigby's prick again, then again, then again - until Rigby shudders away from him and says, "Alright, that's enough of that for now. I have a job to do. You're distracting me."

"But you asked me to - " Mordecai bites off before rubbing his other wing over the bridge of his nose. "Never mind. Do what you gotta do. I'll enjoy the show," he adds curtly.

Rigby makes quick work of reapplying some of the hand cream - Mordecai shakes his head sadly and mutters something about thieves and compensation - and reaching down to finger himself for a second time. The web site that he had referred to (it was peculiar in its sense of community, as if raccoons across the nation were covertly researching how to prepare themselves for anal sex and, worse, could bond over it) had taken care to remind him that proper lubrication was his friend and that more was always, always better than less, and he only pulls his fingers out once he feels slick and loose enough. The sensation of emptiness is more pronounced this time around.

He wipes his fingers off again and flops over onto all fours, straining his neck to look back at Mordecai, who sits slumped and lazy against the wall. "Well," he says, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Have at it."

"Uh, Rigby?" Mordecai says, wavering. "You know, I probably should have told you this before, but ... I'm not exactly packing much, if you catch my drift."

Rigby hiccups out a laugh and lets his head fall forward. "Trust me, Mordecai, I'm not gonna laugh at you if you have a tiny pecker," he assures him. "That would a low blow, dude. I'm not here to wound your precious ego." He hunches forward. "I'm sure that Margaret won't care, either."

"Don't talk about Margaret right now," Mordecai hisses. "Just keep her out of this, okay?"

"Fine, fine," Rigby says, rolling his eyes. "We'll keep your precious Margaret out of the conversation. Now, do you plan on screwing me some time in the next decade? Or should I just have kept fingering myself?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you," Mordecai huffs, clearly agitated. "I don't have a tiny pecker. I don't have any pecker. At all."

"What the 'f,' dude?" Rigby snarls. "You're really gonna tell me that right now? Really? You're gonna wait until I'm on all fours - until I had fingers shoved up all the way inside of me - to make your big reveal?"

"I didn't think that you were gonna take it this far, Rigby!" Mordecai says. "I thought that you'd, you know, chicken out and we would just forget about the whole thing." He scratches the back of his neck uncomfortably. "I mean, I know that you're reckless, but you're usually not this reckless."

" 'Reckless?' " Rigby echoes. " 'Reckless' is signing mysterious contracts and accidentally opening a portal to a different dimension, Mordecai. This isn't reckless. I just thought ... " He breaks off and rolls over onto his back, rubbing his temples with his paws. "Man, I don't even know what I thought anymore. I thought that maybe we could get each other off, is all, I guess. I mean, we're already bros, aren't we? This could have been just an extension of that." He glances up at Mordecai, who looks genuinely apologetic. "I must have read you wrong. Joke's on me."

"Hey, no," Mordecai says gently. "Rigby, it's fine. You're ... you're right, I should have told you that before we tumbled into this whole mess." Rigby curls into himself and turns to face the wall; he's not feeling particularly keen on accepting Mordecai's apology, even if it seems sincere enough. He feels like an idiot, moreso than usual - he'd gotten used to Mordecai being the competent (for certain values of the notion) one in their friendship, but rarely, if ever, does he feels this stupid.

"Rigby, come on," Mordecai pleads. "Don't act like you can't hear me, man. I said that I'm sorry. You think that I like admitting that I don't exactly have the proper equipment, hm? It's not exactly a pleasant ordeal, clearly."

"But I'm your friend," Rigby mumbles, stubborn. "You should have told me, at least."

Mordecai exhales noisily, harshly. "Look, Rigby, it's not like we can't do anything else if you're really that gung-ho about it. I know some stuff that we can try, unless you wanna stay pissed off at me."

"Like what?" Rigby asks cautiously after another tense moment.

"Like lots of stuff," Mordecai hedges. "You know, like - I don't know, you look like you were enjoying my wing on your ... thing," he points out. "And I heard that people sometimes use their tongues." He sticks out his tongue and Rigby chuckles, albeit a little tersely. "Your tongue? That doesn't sound exactly sanitary."

"Says the same guy who just stuck his fingers up his butt," Mordecai snorts. "Besides, you just used butterscotch-scented hand cream. I bet it doesn't taste that bad." He lays his wing on Rigby's hip and edges him back onto his side; Rigby, despite his better judgment, lets him. "Can't taste any worse than that coffee from a few weeks ago."

Rigby isn't expecting it when Mordecai starts to manhandle him into an easier-access type of position, and when he squeals, it comes out too girlish for his tastes. He anticipates a snide comment from Mordecai, but to his credit, he stays resolutely hushed, focused intently on the rim of Rigby's asshole once he's done positioning him. Rigby feels exposed, bordering on unpleasantly so, but he doesn't complain: this is what they decided on, although in a tamer form, and he's not wholly displeased with the direction that the situation has suddenly decided to go in.

The first touch of Mordecai's tongue to Rigby's asshole is a shock even if it is feather-light (Rigby knows that there's a pun to be made there, but he can't bring himself to make it), and he swipes over it in broad, coarse strokes before pulling back. "It's not ... terrible," he says, unsure, hesitant. "I dunno, it kind of tastes like really bad butterscotch and dirt."

Rigby tries not to laugh. He fails.

Despite the sheer, possibly ridiculous amount of build-up and misunderstandings that it took to get to this point, once they hit their stride, everything is resorted to something approaching natural order. Mordecai isn't exactly enthusiastic (and Rigby doesn't expect him to be; when he looks back on the experience later, fingers dancing nervous semi-circles around his prick, trying very hard not to make noise and subsequently wake Mordecai up, he realizes that he probably came off as too desperate, aggressive), but he gets Rigby off in an orderly fashion - tongue, stiff and inflexible, buried in his ass, wings caressing his cock. Rigby, once he's finished coming (most of it lands on the bedsheets, thank god; they can wash those later), spreads boneless on his back.

"Well," Mordecai says, climbing off of the bed. "I'm going to wash my mouth out with at least three different brands of soap now. You gonna be okay here?"

"I'm fine," Rigby remarks languidly, stretching out and waving Mordecai away. He pauses and adds, as an afterthought, "Thanks for that."

Mordecai rolls his eyes. "Yeah. Sure."


End file.
